THE WORLD'S DEBT TO THE IRISH 
Though great the warrior’s glory, 
Much the toil and short his state, 
Swift and short his life has passed, 
In exchange for hell at last. 
Still, stealthy trades his meanest 
Murky, worn, lankest, leanest, 
Whosoever hath good at first, 
Still he seemeth wicked worst. 
Such the stains that fell upon 
Hapless Cellach, Eogan’s son, 
Roaming now from place to place, 
With a band of outlaws base. 
Woe who leave high heart of saints, 
For dark hell and horrid plaints, 
Christ our light o’er combats dim, 
Who forsakes Thee, woe to him. 
These early Irish hymns show very clearly that 
there was no phase of music in verse so far as the 
repetition of similar sounds at regular intervals is 
concerned that the Irish poets were missing. On the 
contrary it is quite evident that the instrument of 
rhyme in poetry was perfected by them to an extent 
that made it a precious heritage of the race forever 
after, almost exactly in the form in which the Irish 
had originally fashioned it. There are perhaps 
more musical languages than the Gaelic, though it 
would be very hard to get a Gael to confess that. 
I have heard an old Irish speaker on the Aran 
Islands say that he was quite sure that Irish had 
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